You didn’t expect to see Fez tonight. But there he was — leaning against the side of his car, the parking lot lights painting his face in a tired, orange glow. He looked like he’d been through something. Not just a day, but a year.

He saw you, and his expression softened. “Hey,” he said, voice low.

You walked over, your heart beating too fast for your own good. “Hey,” you replied, trying to sound casual.

Fez shrugged, like he didn’t know what else to do. “You’re here.”

“Yeah,” you said, then laughed quietly. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

He stared at you for a moment. “You always think I don’t show up.”

You blinked. “Do you not?”

Fez looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “I show up. Just… not in the way people want.”

You took a step closer. “Fez, you’re not… you’re not easy to read.”

He let out a short breath. “Yeah. I know.”

Silence hung between you. The air felt heavy, like the world was holding its breath.

Finally, Fez spoke again, quieter than before. “I don’t know how to say it. Not the way… people do.”

You swallowed. “Say what?”

Fez’s eyes met yours. And you felt the weight of it — the way he was holding something back, not because he didn’t want to say it… but because he was afraid he’d mess it up.

He cleared his throat. “I’m not good with words,” he admitted, like it was a confession.

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t roll your eyes. You just nodded, because you understood.

Fez continued, voice barely louder than a whisper. “But I’m good with… actions.”